


"There was this book..."

by Oruka



Category: Tangled (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oruka/pseuds/Oruka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...a book I used to read every night, to all the younger kids..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	"There was this book..."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soc_puppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soc_puppet/gifts).



> For Sarah - 'appy 'alentines 'ay, 2014.

Eugene was up in the tree again, watching the sun go down.  


This wasn’t unusual in the slightest. He was a remarkably talented climber, as well as a rather unfortunate escape artist. But he always came back. He’d hop over the wall once the little ones were asleep, have moonlit adventures in the town and the gardens and forests beyond, and turn up muddy and dozy on the front doorstep just in time for breakfast. Not every night, maybe once or twice a week. He never missed a storytime.  


It had started when he was eight, both storytime and the empty bed. He’d come to them at the age of four, already a reader and a reasoner, and by the time he was eight the younger kids, and even the elder ones, would crowd all over his bed at night to hear him read The Book.  


He never showed them a bad example. Complete showoff and attention-seeker that he might be, he understood that what he did sometimes was wrong, and never led them into it. He always went off alone, came back, studied and helped out and played all day, and read The Book at night. After a while the stories started drawing from his own adventures, not merely from the distant lands visited in The Book. Sisters who listened in would hear about familiar local landmarks, the river and the bridge, the ever-burning light in the bakery oven, the carrying cry of the matins bell, and know that these weren’t written down in The Book. Eugene only opened it for show.  


But for now, it was only just turning dark, and Eugene was up a tree again, the setting sun making his skin glow warmly, even as the cold Autumn wind whistled through his clothes. He wanted to reach out and touch it, somehow. It glowed. It was warm, but so far, far away. Beautiful, and out of reach, and as he watched, it blushed and hid itself out of his sight as well.  


Tomorrow, Eugene would turn fourteen and the orphanage would officially be done with him. He’d been offered an apprenticeship with a book binder in the town, a tiny little life for others, maybe, but for one who could escape into books it was an infinite future, full of stories to read. And Eugene liked books. Thief and escapologist and bargainer he may be, but a vandal he was not. He had a deep respect for books.  


Even so, he loved the freedom of the forest more. His apprenticeship wasn’t likely to last, but he would try it, nonetheless. For a while, at least. After that, well, he had other ideas.  


One of the Sisters was calling him in. With one last sigh at the darkening sky, Eugene shinned down the tree for the final time and turned indoors, chivvied his housemates into their sleeping gowns, and helped them all find a space on the beds as they crowded round him to listen to The Book.  


He cleared his throat theatrically and laid the battered picture-book wide.  


“The Tales of Flynnigan Rider,” he proclaimed, “in which Flynnigan Climbs the Wall.”

~ ~ ~

When her noble parents had first shown them round the castle, none of them had expected Rapunzel to break down in tears at the sight of so many books in one place. Eugene still remembered the look of euphoria on the day they’d found their way into the town’s bookshop and had spent an hour gazing at maps of the world, but this was something else, surely joy, but tinted with a sorrow that he couldn’t understand.  


She picked out a history, a record of one of her great-grandsires, lifted it from the shelves and let it fall open, and didn’t look up for an hour and a half.  


And he thought back further, and remembered three books on a small tower-room bookshelf: botany, geology, cooking. And he suddenly felt a deep sadness himself, because at least for a while he’d had - in fact, he had lived - the Tales of Flynnigan Rider.  


There wasn’t a copy in the castle library, but it didn’t take long to change that.

~ ~ ~

Eugene was up on the roof again, watching the sun go down.  


Between his arms, Rapunzel leaned back on his chest, her nut-brown hair tinting red as the sun blushed and hid its face once more.  


“I never knew the sky was so wide,” she murmured, as distant clouds turned golden-pink, then darkened into deepest grey. “I always knew it was high, but I never knew it went on forever like this. The valley was… really narrow.”  


And she’d only had three books. And none of them were stories.  


He buried his nose in the crown of her hair and held her closer as the last of the warm Summer breeze cooled against bare skin. She still smelled like flowers. She always smelled like flowers.  


“We ought to go in before the guards spot us up here,” she said. “And it’s nearly storytime. I bet the kids are waiting for us.”

~ ~ ~

The castle library was awash with children at any time of day. One day they would surely count their own children among them, but for now Rapunzel had opened the gates to all the children of the kingdom. They filled the halls and gardens with noise, and play, and, yes, with trouble. But the King laughed and the Queen beamed and the gates were never closed to children again. Most of the children of Corona would arrive as the sun went down, to sit by warm fires and listen, enraptured, to any number of stories that Eugene would tell. He read to them from books, he made up adventures for children to have on their birthdays, took their minds to far-off and fictional words, where dragons flew through the sky like birds, and dreamers could dance on the wind like leaves; where anyone could be a thief, or wear a crown, or be the hero, where wishes came true and everyone had somebody who truly loved them.  


Books were shoved into his hands as soon as they stepped through the door, everyone wanting to hear a different tale, every child wanting their turn as the star of the story. He’d written a lot of their favourites down, and the huge book - The Tome - that bound them was already dog-eared and torn. He hefted it from its spot on the floor and sat, cross-legged, at the edge of the huge, misshapen circle, Rapunzel on his right-hand side, leaning in to listen eagerly, the same way she did every time.  


“I’ve got a special story, who wants to hear it?” he asked.  


Hands shot up, voices cried out ‘Me!’ ‘I want to hear it!’ ‘Tell us a story!’ But for once, he put The Tome down again, and gently pushed it away.  


“Ah, but this one’s a very special story. It’s my favourite story. It’s kind of a long one, but there’s powerful horses and thieves and magic, and I think you’ll really like the ending.”  


Outside, the sun was down and the sky was growing dim, but he could still feel its warmth from a different source. Rapunzel’s magic hadn’t been cut off with her hair, it was still there as much as it ever had been. She shone. She had always shone. He held his hand out to her, and she laced her fingers through his as the room held its breath, waiting for him to begin;

“This is the story of how I died.”


End file.
